Gliding through the air over miles
Makes me smile since it’s been a while.
One-hundred sixty-nine count I –
The years to wait, and the years to lie.
Dampening misty clouds, I soar
To prove the lore for which I bore.
Creeping up from darkness my grave
Where I’ve been sworn a summoned slave.
Oh, my poet, will he waken?
I shan’t wait; oh, my soul is akin!
Curiously cut – life strangled short.
Still asked: was it madness or port?
Oh, only living forty years,
I cried more than a million tears!
If I only could write again
To explain my death for my friends.
Landing on the hard stone I seek,
Pecking as a knock with my beak.
Familiar sounds doth come to free
Now stirring as if luring me.
Come forth to fill my life with words
For your waiting, sad, lonely bird.
With a pen and pondering brain
For you now, I will go insane.
Scratching on the stone of his grave,
He wrote one word seeming depraved.
The raven bowed his head content
As the poet’s pen did relent.
Thank you, sir, for the writings poured
It’s my time to be “Nevermore.”
Poe went now to a restful sleep
His secret not hidden or deep.
Once upon a dark moon rising,
One may see a raven flying
O’er the grave – a poet dear
To protect his soul with no fear.
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